Nothing She Can't Fix
by Susan Zell
Summary: Missing Scene from “Eye For An Eye,” dealing with the after affects of Roxton’s battle with his dark side. (I wouldn’t be called the Hurt/Comfort Queen if I let this one pass me by.)


TITLE:  Nothing She Can't Fix

AUTHOR: Susan Zell

DISCLAIMER:  All characters from "Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's The Lost World" series are the property of John Landis, Over the Hill Gang, Coote/Hayes, New Line Television. (Still not sure who is on and off this list, so forgive any errors.) No profit has been made by this venture. 

SUMMARY:  Missing Scene from "Eye For An Eye," dealing with the after affects of Roxton's battle with his dark side. (I wouldn't be called the Hurt/Comfort Queen if I let this one pass me by.)

SPOILERS: Eye For An Eye, a few third season spoilers.

RATINGS: PG-13

TYPE: Hurt/Comfort, Romance.

WARNINGS: Bullet Extraction Scene

NOTES: The story takes up just after the graveyard conclusion and before the epilogue. 

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: To my loyal betas, their hard work always makes my stories shine. Thank you to Eva for the title.

NOTHING SHE CAN'T FIX

By Susan Zell

            "_He wasn't so tough," Lord John Roxton declared as he headed for home._

            Stifling an astonished exclamation, Marguerite Krux hurried to catch up to the badly limping Roxton. To her relief he no longer looked half dead as he had only moments before in her arms. Despite how torn and tattered he appeared, he walked purposefully toward home. However, he didn't complain when she dipped under his shoulder and helped support his weight.

            Her gaze fell worriedly down to his bleeding leg. She hadn't seen an exit wound which meant the bullet was still within. For a man that was striding home to a very painful operation, Roxton certainly had a spring in his step.

            "John, slow down."

            He smiled down at her, his sand crusted face cracking. "I'm fine now. I feel … complete."

            She felt his arm around her squeeze gently. She understood. The part of him that had been missing, as dark and as primal as it was, remained a necessary part of Lord Roxton. It was what gave him his pigheaded tenacity, his indomitable strength, his bullish pride. Dark things, yes, but so long as they remained tempered by his steadfast honor, his endearing gentleness, and his devoted affection, they could only aid him as they were now.

            "Should we stop? Let him rest?" Veronica asked Challenger as she assisted the ailing professor walking just behind the other two. She had gathered the hunter's discarded accoutrements and carried those as well. 

            The professor answered, "No, if he's got the energy, God knows from where, let him go. We're not far from the treehouse. Otherwise, the two of you will have to carry him. I'm afraid I won't be of much help." He raised his own wounded limb ever so gently.

            Veronica kept her voice low. "How the heck is he managing it? Look at him. He's a wreck."

            Challenger shrugged, pondering the mystery. "If I had to guess, that evil part of Roxton is the key. I suppose we shouldn't knock that animal side of ourselves. It certainly is good for one's constitution. I can easily see now why Roxton is one tough customer in a fight."

            Veronica nodded, not nearly so enamored with the dark side of John Roxton she had battled, such ruthlessness, such indifference, everything that was an antithesis to what the real man stood for. She shrugged it aside and concentrated instead on mentally preparing what medical supplies she would need once they reached home. No matter how strong that dark, animal part of himself that he was relying on at the moment was, she doubted it would last indefinitely. He had lost a great deal of blood throughout the last day and a half. There didn't seem to be a part of him that wasn't bloody.

            Marguerite noticed the same thing as they approached the treehouse forty-five minutes later. Steadily Roxton had been leaning more and more on her. His gait wasn't nearly as sure and his breath was coming a little quicker. His leg was even more saturated with blood than before and the stain on the side of his shirt had doubled.

            "Home sweet home," he muttered as the lofty lodge came into view. 

            Marguerite snorted but didn't comment. The elevator deposited them all on the main level. She looked over at Veronica. "Where?"

            "His room. He's not going to want to move once we have at him."

            "Good idea. You get the supplies."

            "As soon as I settle Challenger."

            Roxton regarded the two women. "I'm right here you know. You could ask me my opinion."

            Marguerite craned her head to look at Veronica. "He thinks he has a choice."

            "Roxton, my boy, we are at their mercy. I'd follow docilely if I were you," urged Challenger.

            "I've never been docile in my life," huffed Roxton.

            To which Marguerite commented, "Well, it's time to practice … for the future."

The last came out in the barest of whispers, hesitant and yet with a hint of promise; it brought Roxton's gaze down abruptly to her, sending a warm rush through his battered body. He was thoroughly enjoying the close contact between them despite the fact that those parts were starting to make clear their discomfort. 

            Marguerite maneuvered the wounded lord downstairs to his little corner of the treehouse. He came along easily, a weariness now permeating his every move. Veronica deposited Challenger in a chair off to the side of Roxton's bed, knowing the professor would want to be nearby during what was to come.

            Roxton eased himself down on his cot and let out a long sigh of relief. He swore he heard his bones crack as he settled himself. "If I weren't so beat, I'd marry this piece of furniture." He offered a small laugh.

            Marguerite pulled his legs up onto the bed and sniffed disdainfully. "I'd say you're well suited for each other."

            The hunter couldn't hold in the grunt of pain at the motion. "My apologies, Marguerite," offered Roxton, his eyes slipping closed. "Spur of the moment decision. No reflection on you at all."

            "See that it isn't." She removed his boots and tossed them to the side.

            Veronica returned with their medical satchel filled with supplies, and also a bowl filled with clean water. With methodical care she began laying out the things they would need, scissors, bandages, antiseptic. "I've got the surgical instruments boiling upstairs," she told Marguerite.

            The heiress nodded, all business now. "First, let's take stock of what we have here." She picked up the scissors and aimed for Roxton's trousers. 

He grabbed her hand firmly. "What do you think you're doing?"

Marguerite sighed. "Well, either I cut the pants or we remove them." Her left eyebrow crept up slightly at the notion. It was easy to see she was more than intrigued by the latter idea.

"_I'll remove them," Roxton insisted, hoping he wasn't biting off more than he could chew. Whatever energy he had garnered from his dark side was all too quickly waning. __Typical of the aggravating brute, he griped. __Never persistent when you need him to be. Using a blanket as covering, he wiggled to remove his pants, hissing and grunting at the effort. Marguerite snaked a hand underneath and grabbed the ends, yanking them the rest of the way off. Roxton let out a startled yelp._

"The scissors would have made it easier," she told him.

"I'm sure," he replied drolly.

Veronica unbuttoned his ruined shirt and helped him slip it off. The hunter tried to keep the gasp of pain that caused to a minimum, only panting slightly with the effort. He couldn't help the sheen of sweat that was currently breaking on his brow. He really was starting to feel quite miserable.

            Veronica let out a slow whistle at the extent of the damage. His torso was splattered with blood, some dried and some fresh. A raw trail seared his side and the bandage around his upper right arm was saturated in scarlet and sand. "Not so tough, eh? Looks like your twin was tough enough to me."

            "A few … lucky shots. That's all."

            Rolling her eyes heavenward at his bravado, she started cleaning the gunshot wound to his left side. Black powder burns from the close proximity of the rifle peppered his skin. "You were damn lucky, Roxton. It just grazed along your ribs. You lost some meat but any further in and it would have tore through an internal organ." 

"All part of the plan," he hissed as she dabbed the area with antiseptic.

Marguerite had been steadily silent though she had been listening to Veronica's assessment, her mind casting back to the fierce kick Roxton's twin had landed on that very side, as if knowing best where to hurt its faltering prey. The coldness in the twin's eyes still bore into her soul. It had felt so wrong coming from the form of Lord John Roxton, a man from whom she had only known kindness and compassion. She had never before been so terrified of him. It had only been her instinctive gamble for survival, both her's and John's, that had managed to turn the tide of that fear. She had drawn the twin's complete attention to her, praying all the while that whatever feelings John had for her was somehow still echoing in this killer persona that towered over her, and she could use it to her advantage. 

Such thoughts disturbed her. She was far more concerned with Roxton's leg. The bullet hole was plugged up with a torn piece of Roxton's shirtsleeve. Grimacing, she placed her palm firmly down on his thigh and pulled out the makeshift bandage. It came out in a spurt of blood and sand.

Roxton rose up off the bed with an anguished howl. "Damn it, Marguerite! Warn me … when you're going … to do that."

"Sorry," she mumbled. Her eyes blinked back the tears that threatened to form. She reminded herself that none of the wounds were life threatening; he would recover. She just had to get through this and not let her emotions show. If she did, even for an instant, she'd never stop them. The floodgates would open and she wouldn't be able to close them again. And right now that wasn't what was needed. It would interfere with what had to be done. And, she had to be detached about it or the pain that she was about to inflict would shatter her heart.

Everything happened so fast these last few hours. She had had no idea the extent of his injuries, and when he had collapsed out in the graveyard, she had feared the worst. Nearly being forced to watch his death at his own hands was a memory that made her tremble. He had almost paid a price for a crime that was non-existent. 

Oseena had made a terrible mistake and misjudged Roxton. If the guardian had taken the time to find out, the simple truth would have been revealed. Roxton could no more kill out of sheer maliciousness as a leopard could change its spots. But instead, Oseena had made the man she loved suffer just to prove the point. Marguerite had a good mind to go back to that graveyard and slap the guardian silly. Out of all the explorers, she alone could show that witch what true anger was and she would be more than happy to do so.

She drew in a deep breath to steady her nerves, forcing her mind to remain on the matter at hand. She probed the wound as gently as she could to determine the bullet's location. Roxton squirmed slightly under her but didn't speak. He just sat there panting at the effort not to move, the creases at the corner of his eyes and around his mouth deepening with the agony as hard lead rubbed across raw damaged nerves once more.

"How bad?" inquired Challenger, craning his neck to see.

"It's deep but it missed the bone and the artery."

"Thank heavens … for small things, eh?" the hunter commented glibly. He then actually smirked at Marguerite. 

She shook her head. The man was acting very oddly. It was as if he was still running on the surge of high adrenaline and wasn't feeling the full pain of his injuries yet. But he would. She turned to his dresser and yanked open a drawer. It held his undergarments. 

"Hey!" he protested.

She rummaged in the drawer for a few seconds under the astonished gazes of the others, and then nodded triumphantly as her hands found what she was searching for. She withdrew her arm, holding her prize: a half filled bottle of single malt whiskey that the hunter had been coveting. She thrust it at a miffed Roxton.

"Drink it."

He raised an eyebrow. "How did you know where it was?"

"All men hide their secrets where they think no woman would be bold enough to tread."

"All except for you," he groused, taking a long swig from the bottle. He felt the harsh burn as the fiery liquid traced a path down to his gut.

"If you want to hide something from me, hide it with your dirty socks."

He grinned at her. "I'll remember that." 

He watched her move around him and maneuver upstairs. Despite her banter, which was too sharp and clipped to be normal, she was walking very erect. The stress of the situation, both then and now, were telling on her. He wanted to reach out to her, let her know all was well. He was all right. Even though he was exhausted beyond measure, in terrible pain, and soundly trounced, he felt whole. And that was the most important thing.

The fear was gone. All the uncertainty, the despair that had flooded him, had been an unnatural thing. But the fear had been the worst. That alien concept had invaded his being with the removal of the dark matter. The constant fear that had bubbled up inside him at every shadow and sound had been unbearable.  It had threatened to consume him. 

Until this very moment, he didn't know how or why he had withstood it. The urge to flee, to escape, had hammered at him incessantly. Everything that Oseena had told him he would experience, he had. Never before had a hunter such as himself even considered such concepts. He had been ashamed to be so weak. But it had been Marguerite in danger that had made him stop to defend her and the others. It had been she alone that had caused him to battle that weakness and remain true to his code.

The heiress came back into the room, holding the pan with the sterilized surgical instruments. He offered a smile to her that she half-heartedly returned. But it fell off far too quickly from her lips. She was not looking forward to the task ahead.

"Keep drinking," she ordered him as he observed her.

He obliged, commenting idly, "You have to love a woman who demands you get drunk in her presence."

She paused in mid-step. Did he say _love? She looked back at him, startled. A green eye winked at her and a warmth flooded her so fast that she felt almost faint. She spun away from him, not wanting him to see the emotion he had wrought so plainly on her face._

Veronica came up behind her. "Do you want me to do it?" she asked the heiress, mistaking the woman's reaction as distress. 

A voice inside Marguerite screamed the affirmative. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt John even a whit more, but the words he had spoken to her in the graveyard at her dismay over his depleted condition, "_nothing you can't fix," echoed in her ears. He was relying on her. He trusted her to tend him. It stunned her. No one ever trusted her. People feared her, hated her, and suspected her. No one had ever trusted her._

She shook her head at the huntress. She would do this, for John, because he wanted her to. 

It took her another half hour to get everything prepared for the extraction of the bullet. In that time, Lord John Roxton had gotten thoroughly and properly blitzed. At present, he was trying to hold an intelligent conversation with Challenger who just continued to raise a contrary eyebrow at the inebriated man. 

"Di I eva tell you bout ma Unca Verne? Mad as a Hat..Hatter. Thout faires lived on our 'state." Roxton craned his head to look over at the professor. "Do yu believe in faires, Cha…Challe…Charlie?" His face screwed up thoughtfully. "Thas not right." 

Challenger just sighed, wishing the ladies would hurry up with their preparations. Watching Roxton's slow decline into drunkenness was almost painful. The man was going to have a hell of a hangover come morning.

Roxton's eyes glassed over for a second but then they refocused, or at least they tried to on the older man. "Went huntin' wi' 'im. Unca Verne. Yu know, the fairy man." The hunter shook his head back and forth on the pillow. "Eva hunt a fairy, Charlie? It's na easy." His eyes narrowed as he tried to measure a small space with his fingers while holding the near empty bottle, but his muscles weren't cooperating. "They're vera vera tiny. Hard ta draw bead on." He looked over at Marguerite. "She knows. Right, Marger … Margur … Madge?" he stammered, finally deciding on the short form of her name.

Marguerite winced. She never did like that nickname. She tolerated it only from her once close friend Adrienne, but after the ghostly apparition that had been conjured from her subconscious months ago, she didn't want to hear it used again by anyone.

She eyed Roxton curiously. And what an odd thing for him to ask her. Why would he think she knew anything about fairies? Of course, she did, but there was no reason for him to know that particular tidbit of information. It tickled a distant memory but one she had no time to spend contemplating.

A drunk Roxton was quite an eye opening experience. It hadn't taken him long to get inebriated either, though it was more because he hadn't eaten in the last twelve hours rather than a weak tolerance for the stuff. Having nothing in his stomach merely made the alcohol soak quicker into his bloodstream. There was barely an inch of whisky left, but she didn't think he had the coordination to drink it at this point. Which meant it was time. She nodded to Veronica.

Veronica tried to take the bottle from Roxton, but he saw her coming and eluded her, though not for long. She wrenched it from his hands a second later. He actually pouted at her.

"I 'spect that bottle … to be returned … to its propa home," he informed her.

"Suuure," she told him. "It will be there when you wake up." Satisfied, Roxton nodded and closed his eyes for a bit, humming a poor rendition of '_I'm a Rover, Seldom Sober.' Veronica regarded Marguerite. "Just as soon as I dump the rest of it out," she added in a whisper._

Marguerite grimaced. "I don't think he'll miss it. Believe me, he won't want another drink of whiskey any time soon, not after this." 

"Probably not."

Marguerite surprised the huntress when she took the bottle from her and downed the last swig of whiskey, hissing through her teeth afterwards. "To steady my nerves," she ground out. Veronica just stared at her. Marguerite drew in a deep breath and gripped the long thin tweezers. "I'll need you to hold him down. Even in this condition he'll be strong as an ox. Challenger, do you think you can help?"

The professor nodded. "I'll sit on him if I have to."

She shook Roxton's shoulder. "John."

He stopped humming and opened his eyes at her in a bleary fashion. Marguerite showed him a wad of cloth. "I want you to put this in your mouth and bite down hard. All right?"

He regarded her quizzically. "Why?"

"Just do it." She held up the steel tweezers.

For a moment, Roxton's eyes held lucidity. He nodded at her and took the proffered cloth, settling it between his teeth. His hands gripped the sides of the bed, Veronica leaning down to put weight on his forearms to keep them there. Challenger placed his weight on Roxton's left leg while Marguerite did the same with the right, positioning herself over the wound.

With a last meeting of everyone's eyes, she began. 

Roxton's scream of agony rang out clear despite the cloth jammed in his mouth. He tried to shift away from the pain but they held him. Tears flowed steadily down Marguerite's face but she merely blinked them away and carried on, concentrating solely on extracting the bullet. To her relief, she felt the tweezers strike the bullet, but she couldn't get a good grasp on it. The excess blood and the frenzied shifting was making it difficult.

Mercifully, Roxton stilled, passing out finally. It was for the best. Now Marguerite could get a better grip on the elusive piece of lead. She pulled it out with a cry of triumph. "I've got it!"

            "Pressure, Marguerite. Put pressure on the wound," Challenger urged. It was bleeding profusely again. 

The heiress tossed the ball of lead aside, barely hearing its thunk on the wooden floor and it rolling away as she pressed a wad of clean cloth over the entry hole. A blossom of red quickly appeared through the thick layers. Challenger handed her some antiseptic, which she poured liberally into the wound, cleaning it, and hopefully preventing an infection. Thankfully, Roxton didn't even flinch despite the burning it must have caused. Marguerite piled on more dressing and then wrapped the wound up tight with a thick pressure bandage.

            Then she sat back, shaking. The professor placed a steady hand on her slim shoulder. "It's done. You did a fine job, Marguerite. Though I don't envy him come morning."  
  


            "Me neither," she said softly. Letting out a shuttering sigh, she rose. "There's still work to be done. His side, his arm…"

            Veronica brought over more bandages. "I'll take care of his arm; you can finish up on his side. It would be best if this was all done before he wakes up."

            Grateful, Marguerite agreed. The arm would require more stitching. She was sure the stitches she had sewn the previous night had ripped out with all his exertions throughout the day. The amount of blood that had saturated his sleeve only confirmed it. She'd leave it for Veronica to fix. Right now, Marguerite's hands were trembling so badly, she didn't think she could do a straight job, despite her penchant for sewing.

            She removed the limp rag from Roxton's mouth and dropped it to the floor. His jaw muscles twitched reflexively and she soothed them with a tender brush of her hand, grateful that he was no longer in pain. She reached for some salve and gently smoothed some over the gash in his side.

            And so it wasn't long before an oblivious John Roxton was bound in bandages and swathed in clean sheets. Veronica was just finishing up her work on his arm when she paused. 

            "He took such a beating," she commented quietly. "Three bullet wounds. It's a wonder he didn't bleed to death out there."

            The dark haired heiress glanced up sharply at her. "Three? He only got shot twice."

            Veronica regarded Roxton's right arm once more. "Well, call me crazy, but he's got another bullet burn up here high on his shoulder."

            Marguerite came over and looked for herself. And then her stomach bottomed out. She had seen that wound before but not on Roxton, not the real Roxton. The vision of Roxton's evil twin towering over her came again to mind and she clearly saw the spot of blood high on the shoulder. Somehow her Roxton had shot his double. She remembered rejoicing over that fact at the time; now it only caused alarm. "The twin," she muttered. "It had a wound there." 

            "Are you sure?"

            "Yes. Very."

            Challenger came over. "Fascinating. The infusion of the dark matter must have included accepting everything that the separate part of him experienced. It's a good thing our Roxton wasn't able to inflict more damage on his darker self. He'd be in even worse shape than he is already."

            Marguerite stood stock still, eyes glued to the wound, digesting the information and what it meant. 

            Veronica shook her head sympathetically and proceeded to bandage the wound. Roxton had certainly been through a lot these past two days. She wouldn't be surprised if he slept straight through the next day or so. His body certainly needed it. Between the blood loss, the stress, the alcohol, and God knows what else he endured out there in the jungle, the man was still a wreck. 

            A part of her had been terrified that there were going to lose another member of their rapidly dwindling party. First there was Summerlee and then they had lost Malone. The loss of Ned had been more than she could bear. She thought of him every day and was ashamed that she had been unable to save him. The thought that Marguerite would lose Roxton as well had angered her. Veronica swore that she wouldn't allow it to happen, but instead she had been removed from the fight far too easily. That too made her mad. But to her great relief it had all worked out. Roxton had made the right choice and Oseena had forgiven him.

            The best thing of all that made the day's events seem bearable was the fact that Ned had made his presence known again. That news alone had made her heart sing with joy. 

She wasn't a fool; she knew that it meant he might be dead, but it could also mean a dozen or so other things. This was the Lost World after all where logic held no sway. No matter where he was, Veronica would find him, that she swore. 

            But in the meantime, Marguerite still had her Roxton, thanks to his steadfast nobility and utter devotion to the woman he loved.

            Veronica patted the hunter's arm gently as she finished. "Sleep well, Roxton," she murmured. "She's here waiting for you when you wake." Blinking back a sorrowful tear, she rose, wishing the same could be said for her own situation. Hopefully some day. She turned her attention to Marguerite.

            The heiress was still in the room, busying herself with cleaning up, a tad too frantically. Veronica reached around her, taking the things from her hands. "I'll take care of all this. Go rest."

            Marguerite merely shook her head fervently. "No, you're just as tired. Besides, I couldn't…. not now." Her eyes darted back toward the sleeping hunter.

            "Then stay here and sit with him for a while." Veronica pulled a larger, more comfortable chair into the room and covered it with a wrap of fur and some extra blankets. She knew Marguerite would not be moving from Roxton's side any time soon. Placing a gentle hand on her friend's, she inclined her head toward the new seat. "Get some sleep if you can. It's been a hell of a day for all of us."

            Marguerite's face tightened as she fought the emotions that swelled; she let them show only in the gesture of a tiny smile, genuine and weary. 

            "I'll brew some tea upstairs," Veronica said. "It will help his hangover, not to mention pain in general. Just in case he wakes up."

            "Thank you." Marguerite stepped back making a show of fixing her hair. Then she stopped such foolishness and raised soft, gray eyes toward Veronica's sharp, blue ones. "For everything." 

            The huntress knew to what she referred. She remembered Marguerite's pleading expression when Roxton tried to take on the evil twin single-handed. The heiress had practically begged for her help in keeping them together. Veronica understood all too well. Sometimes they forgot that no one was alone here and no one faced a threat on their own. Veronica could no more let Roxton face his demons by himself than she would allow her mother or her father to do so. That's what family was all about. And they were that now. A family. They had to stick together, all of them, now more than ever. Veronica would not lose another one.

            "Call me if you need me, Marguerite."

            Marguerite bobbed her head, not willing to trust her voice just yet.

            The huntress walked up the stairs. "I better go find Challenger. He's probably face down on the floor of his lab, still scribbling last minute details on those plans for his latest invention."

            Marguerite laughed for the first time in days and she knew that was what the huntress had intended. It had been a long hard struggle, but somehow the two of them had become friends. Marguerite would have never thought it possible. She found she liked the promise it held.

She turned to Roxton who lay very still in the bed. His tanned form a striking contrast against the white of the sheets and bandages. She let herself collapse in the chair beside him. 

            It was over. And he was alive and safe.

            _Damn this place at times, she ranted silently. __Could it just leave them alone for a few moments? In just the last couple of months, they had been through so much: they had all died; Malone was still dead; she had almost drowned, and now this. Was there any peace at all to be found on this bloody plateau?_

            The anger in her eased and she just sat very still, watching Roxton sleep blissfully before her. She reached out and rearranged the blankets over him. Her hand unconsciously rose to smooth his mussed hair that was sticking almost straight up in spots. There was still sand buried within the dark strands. Using her fingers she combed through what she could. It would have to do. Through it all, the man didn't wake, so deep was his slumber. She'd wash his hair for him in the sink when he was up and about. 

            She wanted that to be now, this very instant, even though she knew he needed to sleep most of all, but she wanted to see him healthy and strong once more. It did her heart good to see him that way. Bustling about the treehouse, being their protector, making tea, cleaning the weapons, annoying her.

When he still didn't rouse from her light grooming, she reclined in the chair, keeping one hand entangled with Roxton's. The chair was much more comfortable than she would have imagined, draped with the soft furs and light blankets. She fell asleep in just moments even though she hadn't planned to.

***

            It was well into the night when she jerked awake; something had changed. She sat there in the darkness and eventually it came to her. Roxton had shifted and his hand was gone from hers. It's absence subconsciously noted.

            "John?" She leaned over him, checking his breathing and his temperature, relieved to find both normal. He was a tad warm but it wasn't a fever. She eased some of the blankets off to make him more comfortable.

            Roxton drew in a deeper breath at the motion and his eyes flickered open. She waited till he regained his bearings. It took a while. Finally she called out his name again.

            He blinked a few times and then turned towards her voice. "Marguerite?" His was thick and dry. He coughed lightly and then stilled as the movement caused some discomfort.

            "I'm right here." She gathered up his hand once more and squeezed it gently, letting him feel her physical presence in the darkness.

            "Is it over?" 

            "Yes, John. You're going to be all right."

            He sighed. "I never doubted you for a moment."

             "I did."

            He reached out and touched her face. "Never do so again. I couldn't have been in better hands." 

            She shook her head hesitatingly, cherishing the feel of his palm against her cheek. "I won't. Not if you're here."

            Roxton brought her hand to his lips and kissed it gently. Then his brow furled with deep lines, He groaned and dragged his hand from hers and aimed for his head. "What a headache? What hap—? Oh, I remember. You got me drunk."

            "Sorry."

            "I don't think you are," he growled, exhaling very, very slowly, wincing as he did so. "I think I feel worse than I did before."

            "Ingrate." She rose. "Veronica brewed some tea. I'll be right back."

            "Now's not the time for tea," he moaned, still holding his skull in place with a desperate hand.

            "It's for your hangover, Roxton."

            "Oh, in that case, it's the perfect time for tea."

            Veronica was as good as her word and Marguerite was back quickly. She lit a few candles along the way and she could now see Roxton in all his pathetic glory. He looked terrible; dark purple bruises were beginning to show on his throat and along his jaw. The beating he took had been grueling. Still, he was cracking jokes, which did more than anything else to ease her mind. It was the one thing she always counted on. The minute he stopped doing so, she would be beside herself.

            With a hand behind his neck, she maneuvered him up enough to drink. He grimaced at the taste of the tea, which actually was better than most of the medicinal things Veronica brewed up, but in Roxton's condition, just about everything was bound to taste bad. He drank as much as he could and then just wanted to lay his big, throbbing head back down on the pillow. 

            "Better?" she asked.

            "No." 

            "Give it time." 

She lifted up the blanket down by his thigh and it was then that he remembered he was practically naked. He jerked the covers back down and grunted at the pain that move elicited. 

"John, it's too late for modesty." That only made him blanch. She could see him trying to work through what might have happened while he was drunk and failed miserably. "I need to check your leg. Now stop being childish and let me have a look."

"It's fine." His grip on the blanket didn't waver.

"It's either me or Veronica. Take your pick. Challenger's in no condition to play nursemaid."

Roxton thought it through and eventually let go of the blanket but kept his hand poised at a delicate position just to keep her honest.

Marguerite rolled back the edge of the blanket and the sheet. Thankfully, there was no sign of infection. The bandage was still spotted with blood but it wasn't anything to be alarmed at. After all, the man had a sizeable hole in his thigh. She opted to let it go until morning. Roxton needed sleep more than anything else at the moment. 

Satisfied, she let the blankets drop back into place, much to Roxton's relief. She checked the rest of his injuries as well and found them all to be concern free. Roxton's breathing was fast becoming more relaxed and rhythmic. Veronica's brew was doing its job. He wasn't going to stay awake much longer. "Feeling any better yet?"

Roxton's eyes were drooping but he fought to keep them open. "A little fuzzy," he murmured.

"Good. You need to rest, John."

"I keep dreaming…of you and I."

She laughed, a trifle embarrassed. "That seems to be a given whenever you're unconscious." She recalled the last time he had woken up, wounded and in her arms, both a frightening memory as well as warm joyous one.

"Can't think of a better way to pass the time," he muttered, suppressing a mighty yawn.

"Was I feeding you grapes again?" she scoffed, amused by his fantasies of her.

He shook his head, almost asleep now. "You were professing … you loved me."

            Marguerite stiffened. "What?"

            "You love me," he whispered, trailing off into a deep slumber.

            Marguerite couldn't catch her breath; she sat there gasping loudly in the stillness of the room. Roxton didn't hear her, already long past being aware of anything but what his dreams foretold. 

Challenger had been right. Somehow, all of the twin's memories, including the one of her confessing her dismay at not ever telling John she loved him, was deep rooted now in her Roxton's memory, whether he realized it or not.

            She couldn't tell how she felt about that. Instinct told her to be alarmed, never let your true feelings be known, but then there was a part of her that she rarely let loose, and that part told her to celebrate. Finally, she allowed a grand smile to emerge onto her lips. It really didn't matter either way if he remembered it as a dream or as reality; it was truth and a part of him knew it.

            Lowering her head near to his, she brushed his lips with hers. "I do love you, John Roxton. Forever and always. And who knows, dreams have a funny way of coming true."

The End

NODS: This time to California Girl and her wonderful fairies in "The Fairy Ring." I couldn't help but tip my hat to that sweet little story of hers. And also there is a little nod to Tales of the South Seas. For those who have seen it, you'll recognize the moment.


End file.
